Amid the Roar
by kit.kelly
Summary: Without Bruce Wayne, John Blake is Gotham's best defense when the Joker escapes from Arkham. Hoping to stop one madman, Blake seeks out another. After confronting Bane, however, Blake has a strange dream. He dreams that he has locked something away, something deep inside him. The truth that he had once known…but chose to forget.


A/N: This is the first fanfiction I've written in a long while, so questions and criticism are appreciated. As you can see, it's mostly Nolanverse. I threw in some comic book references for fun, but I am no expert and this story does not follow the comic canon. I hope you enjoy this! I'll have the next chapter up ASAP.

* * *

"Memory believes before knowing remembers. Believes longer than recollects, longer than knowing even wonders."

William Faulkner

* * *

"_We interrupt your regular broadcasting with breaking news. Reports have just come in that Arkham Asylum patient #0801, better known in Gotham as "the Joker" escaped from the institution for the criminally insane late last night. It is nearly ten years to the day since the patient was first taken into custody thanks to the Batman after a spree of terrorist attacks. In recent months, it has also been revealed that the escaped patient was likely involved in the events surrounding the emotional breakdown and resulting death of DA Harvey Dent. Prior to this revelation, it was suspected that Dent had been murdered by none other than—"_

Blake does not hear the words that follow. He is too fixated on the scarred man leering back at him from the mug shot broadcasted on his television screen. The filthy hair and painted gash of a mouth are nearly as legendary as the Batman's cowl, or the mask of Bane, the monster who kept Gotham captive.

"Were you around the first time he came to Gotham?"

Blake turns to the young woman watching the same news feed from her own monitor at the other end of the cave. "Yeah," he says. "I had just turned eighteen."

"I was still living in Paris," Carrie says. "I remember seeing those boats he hi-jacked on the news, but other than that…"

Carrie Kelly double majored in physics and computer science at the Sorbonne. She moved to Gotham after graduation, lured by a much-coveted internship opportunity offered by one Mr. Lucius Fox of Wayne Enterprises. Blake was at first surprised by the old man's choice in an assistant. At first glance, Ms. Kelly did not seem extraordinary. Her brown hair and diminutive frame did not stick out in a crowd, nor was she particularly outgoing or charismatic. But Fox swore that she was just the sort of person the new Batman would find useful, and so far he has been right. Carrie possesses a quiet but tenacious genius. She performs well under pressure, and her work is both brilliant and unencumbered by ego.

Video footage of the Joker rolls on the television screen. The clown thrashes against his straightjacket. The padded walls absorb all echoes, deadening his raving, uncontrollable laughter so that the noise is blunted into something barely recognizable as human. Blake remembers the bomb-rigged ferries, the hospitals, the murdered cops. He remembers his rage and anguish when Gordon revealed what really happened to Harvey Dent. The Joker had convinced Gotham's White Knight that the justice and order he believed were lies. A man with a silver tongue like that is dangerous.

"_We have new reports that the Joker may have made his escape by taking a hostage. Dr. Harleen Quinzel, one of the psychiatrists responsible for the Joker's…excuse me…the patient's treatment, has been reported missing."_

"I know her!" Carrie's brown eyes widen as she stares at the pretty blond on the screen. "She was the TA for one of my Psych classes freshman year. How did she end up in Gotham, too?"

"We'll find her," Blake says automatically. "We'll save her." Even as he says this, he cannot deny his doubts. Bruce Wayne, the real Batman, had barely been able to contain the Joker's madness. Despite having Fox, Carrie Kelly, and an arsenal of state-of-the-art equipment, Blake is painfully aware of his inadequacies. He did not train in the mountains with Ra's al Ghul or raise himself from Hell on Earth to protect a city that gave him nothing in return. John Blake knows how to be an orphan. How to be an angry young man. And a cop. But he's not sure he knows how to step outside himself, how to be more than a man. A symbol.

Carrie touches his arm gently. "We're going to catch this guy. Bruce wouldn't have left all this to you if he hadn't believed in you, okay?"

Sometimes, Carrie's perceptive nature cuts a little too close for comfort. "I'm gonna suit up," Blake says, rallying. "Keep an eye on the news. Also, see what else you can find on the Joker. Not just his crimes. I want to know what he was doing during his time at Arkham. Who he talked to. What kind of meds he took. Everything."

"On it." Carrie throws him a mock salute. "The best way to learn about Arkham would probably be to do a little reconnaissance, though."

Blake smirks. "I'm about to."

* * *

The new suit is slightly different from Bruce's. There's no cape, for one. It made Blake feel cumbersome and, to be honest, a little silly. Instead, Blake's opted for a more streamlined, lighter model. He's kept the Kevlar and titanium plate concept Fox designed but has discarded the heavy belt. The majority of his weapons and other gadgets are stored in his gauntlets and boots. Blake is slighter than Bruce was, so the pared down armor suits him. Carrie was afraid the alterations would diminish the Batman's symbolic power over criminals, but he was adamant. He has to do this his way. Cheap imitation does not inspire. For inspiration, he needs results.

Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane is located in the shadiest part of the island metropolis. The building rises out of the surrounding slums, the steel and cement structure lurking above like some sort of spectral monument to the squalor that surrounds it. Bane, Blake muses wryly, did not release the asylums loonier inmates, and even the most vehement devotees of the League of Shadows' anarchistic Gotham did not complain. He dwells on this thought as long as he ever allows himself to dwell on anything relating to those events two years ago.

Blake is disturbed by just how simple breaking into Arkham turns out to be. The guards must still be in upheaval after the Joker's escape. That's what he wants to think. The truth of the matter, Blake knows, is that Gotham's city budget for hospitals and prisons is woefully inadequate. Post-Bane, Gotham has backslid into a state of corruption almost as bad as it was before the Dent Act. The poor hate the rich. The rich fear the poor. The hatred and violence that always simmer below the city's surface flare dangerously. Bruce Wayne's sacrifice only purified Gotham for so long.

Avoiding the guards outside, Blake scales the electrified fence. Thanks to his suit's modifications, the current doesn't reach him. He scales a wall and slips in through a fire escape. He finds himself in a doctor's office. Knowing that there are no cameras in this non-patient part of the hospital, he goes out into the hall and heads toward the surveillance room. One of the first precautions he took after taking up the cowl was memorizing the floor plans for every major public building in the city. Fox was surprised by how quickly he did it. Blake has always had a mind for mazes.

Blake enters the surveillance room. There's only one security guard. The man stares at him, frozen from shock. This gives Blake enough time to knock him out before he can radio for backup, but only just. He needs to be more careful, should have anticipated the guard. Stupid. He activates a small switch in his left glove and listens until he hears the unbearably loud, shrieking wail of the transmitter he left in a trashcan outside the asylum. That should keep the other guards distracted for at least ten minutes.

There's a door at the other end of the room, but Blake ignores it. What draws his attention is the wall of monitors in front of the unconscious guard. Each monitor depicts a patient's cell.

Blake stares, mesmerized, at the tiny figures on the screens. From these sorts of madmen, he would have expected violence—pounding against doors, attempts at tearing the padding off the walls, gnawing at restraints with bare teeth. What he is not prepared for is the unapologetic normalcy. On one screen, a man with a gimp leg reads. On another, a haggard woman plays chess by herself. Most of them are sleeping. Some toss and turn. Others lie still as death. In their unguarded moments, the mad seem sane.

After glancing at the image of the Joker's vacated cell, Blake realizes that any evidence in the cell has been thoroughly corrupted by the police. He stares glumly at the investigation tape. There wills be fingerprints everywhere no doubt. Errant DNA. Damn it. What Gotham's finest can't have fucked up, though, is whether or not the lock was broken. Blake fiddles with the camera controls until he is able to zoom in on the latch, taking a picture of the door with the camera built into the protective material over his eyes. The lock is intact, which means the Joker had some help. The name Harleen Quinzel floats into Blake's mind once again. He'll have to ask Carrie more about her. Luckily for Blake, the Joker's cell is equipped with a more high tech surveillance system than those in the cells of the other insane but not nearly so insane inmates. He zooms in on other parts of the cell, taking more photos. He also downloads a copy of the video feed from the night of the Joker's escape.

This should be enough. The guard will wake soon. He has to go.

However, as Blake turns, his gaze falls again on the door at the other end of the room. It looks new, too modern for the crumbling, underfunded walls into which it was build. Unable to resist, he approaches the door, trailing his gloved fingers across the keypad that holds the secret to unlocking it. He doesn't have time for this. Soon, the guards will realize that the commotion he caused at the gate was just a diversion. Blake should get out now, but instead he finds himself examining the lock. It's a six-digit password. He can tell by the wear on the keys:

124589

He knows that Bruce would have had more self-control, but there's something about this door. Blake has a hunch about the numbers. The same phantom knowledge that lingers in him sometimes after waking from a deep sleep. He picks an order and punches it into the keypad:

528491

The green light flashes.

"No fucking way."

The door slides open silently, revealing another surveillance room. This room is sparser than the other and just as at odds with the fancy door. The flickering fluorescent lights reveal a rolling chair, banged up metal desk, and filing cabinet, all probably from the 70s. On the desk is an electric fan and clunky PC computer.

Blake enters, trying not to shiver as the automatic door seals shut behind him. There must be a motion sensor in the room because, as he moves closer, the old computer lights up. The monitor reveals video feed from another cell. The cell is padded like the others. However, unlike the other rooms, it is cluttered with medical equipment— a ventilator and vital signs monitor, tubes connected to IV drips, emergency surgical equipment in the corner. The figure all of this surrounds is not so much lying on the bed is he is laid out on it. Blake sees thick leather restraints fastened across his biceps and torso, as well as a cuff made of the same material on each wrist. There are more restraints beneath the sterile-looking sheets, no doubt, and he is fairly certain the bed itself is bolted to the floor. But who is this man? So weak he requires a catheter to piss but still dangerous enough to be restrained? Blake studies the tiny figure on the screen, trying to make out his features hidden behind the ventilation mask.

It hits him all at once. Like being submerged suddenly in cold water. _Bane._ The name thuds over and over, in time with his accelerated heartbeat. Bane, the monster of the Pit. The man who broke the Bat. The man who, according to forensic reports, is dead.

* * *

"You're sure that it was him?"

"Yes." Blake stares over Carrie's shoulder as she pulls up everything known about Bane on her computer. "I didn't recognize him at first, but I'm certain. Damn it! How did I not find out sooner?"

"The city government may have faked his death. You know, to prevent panic. This conspiracy could be so high up the police don't even know about it."

"But I should have known." Blake clenches his still gloved fingers. "I should have checked to make sure! If Bruce were here…"

"Well he's not here, and regret isn't going to get you anywhere. You thought he was dead. We…we all did. We saw it on the news. The body bag. The broken mask."

Blake nods. "We wanted him to be dead so badly we didn't question it." He glances at Carrie's computer monitor. "What did you find?"

Carrie's eyes scan the information. There are several photos and articles in English, French, and what looks like Russian. Since Gotham's kidnapping, hundreds of texts have been published in political science, psychology, and sociology journals. The least tactful scientists call what Bane did the greatest social experiment ever undertaken. Most people recognize it for the act of terrorism it really was. "Not much, really. Just accounts of his crimes. Here's an autopsy report. Fake, obviously. I hacked Arkham's database but couldn't find anything. They must keep his information in a separate file system."

"There's nothing here about Miranda."

"Don't you mean Talia? You're right. There isn't. Looks like Gotham's upper crust wanted to keep that secret. Can't have anyone knowing they attended charity balls thrown by a would-be mass murderer." Carrie continues reading. "There's no new background information about Bane, either. Isn't that strange? I mean, who was he before the Pit?"

Blake laughs, the sound low and unhappy in his throat. "Whoever he was, I don't care."

"But don't you wonder?"

"All I need to know is that he's supposed to be dead and isn't. He's still here. In Gotham." The realization that this monster is being kept alive under his victims' noses causes Blake's blood to boil. Such deception befits terrorists and the criminally insane, not Gotham's finest or the military. This is what Blake would like to believe, at any rate. The reality of the police and military's moral standing, as he knows from personal experience, leaves much to be desired.

"And what about the Joker. Any leads?"

The sudden change in topic jolts Blake from his dark thoughts. "Oh, right. There wasn't much to go on. The lock wasn't broken, so I think it's safe to assume that he's in league with Dr. Quinzel. And here's some footage of his cell." He hands her the zip drive on which he has stored all the photos and video feed. "See what you can learn from that."

Carrie nods. "Get some sleep. I'll have the information for you first thing in the morning."

"I'm not tired." However, even as he protests, Blake is aware of his eyelids beginning to droop. As the shock of discovering that Bane is still alive wears off, he realizes that he cannot remember the last time he slept. He stifles a yawn, and Carrie smiles knowingly.

"Sweet dreams, John."

"Funny thing about me, Ms. Kelly. I never dream."

* * *

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think.


End file.
